I have
always had an ear for music. There is nary a song played
on the vintage, oldies and light rock stations to which I can't sing along. More
often than not, even without the radio on, there is a song rumbling around in
my head (it's a blessing or a curse, depending on the song). Like it or not, music is as much a part of my life as breathing.
The Midwest is known for its support of
choral music and I feel fortunate to have grown up in that climate. From the sixth grade on I sang in school choirs and in the contemporary and adult choirs at church. Growing up during the raucous time of Vatican II, I sang all the great contemporary Catholic hymn hits such as "Be Not Afraid" and "Eagle's Wings" with as much feeling as my young heart could muster. Eventually I found my way to the stage and musical
theater and emoted from there.
After college it was challenging to find a place to sing. As an adult there was no built-in place for music. Citing irreconcilable differences I'd stopped attending church and other adult choir options were either too focused on a single style of music, too professional or too unprofessional. I was looking for something that was just right.
After college it was challenging to find a place to sing. As an adult there was no built-in place for music. Citing irreconcilable differences I'd stopped attending church and other adult choir options were either too focused on a single style of music, too professional or too unprofessional. I was looking for something that was just right.
After a
number of years not singing I surprised myself by joining the Basilica choir in Minneapolis .
It was still status quo between me and church but a friend sang baritone there so I'd heard them sing a few times. Never mind that they were a church choir-
they were a really good choir! One Wednesday night in January I attended a rehearsal
and for the next seven years I was a second soprano in good standing.
Our choir
ranged in size between seventy and one hundred people and, when it swelled to
that size, the choir stalls were packed tight.
It was a rare treat to be singing with that many people- I don't even think
my college choir was that large. The
volume of sound we could create was massive but it was almost as exciting to
hear how utterly quiet we could be.
Through singing I've always found a way to connect with beauty and that happened frequently at the Basilica. We had the great good fortune of singing in a building built for drama and sound. Inside that large, stone space, once we stopped singing the reverberations continued for an additional seven seconds. Our notes would hang in the air like the thin trail of smoke from an extinguished candle curling upward until it disappeared.
Through singing I've always found a way to connect with beauty and that happened frequently at the Basilica. We had the great good fortune of singing in a building built for drama and sound. Inside that large, stone space, once we stopped singing the reverberations continued for an additional seven seconds. Our notes would hang in the air like the thin trail of smoke from an extinguished candle curling upward until it disappeared.
With liturgical
music, every Sunday is a different theme and it’s the choir’s job to back that up.
Because of that, we plowed
through music and my musical skills were challenged and improved. Old music, new music,
pieces commissioned just for us--- it was thrilling and daunting.
There
were times when a piece would be rehearsed maybe twice before a performance- uh, mass. Important or difficult pieces
got more rehearsal time but sometimes that was just an additional two run-throughs.
Our director was Protestant
percussionist and I relied heavily on her cues to know where, when and how to
come in and what to do. Early on I realized
that to be in this choir was to be a good sheep: follow, follow, follow,
follow.
During my
youth my parents paid for more years of piano lessons than I'd care to note
here. Despite all that training I am not
very good at counting; I sing by feel. Counting
is an exacting and vitally important skill especially when singing or playing
with others. If you can’t count out your
line, giving the correct value to the notes and rests, you won't be singing the
same music as your choir neighbor. And
neighbors, as we well know, have set certain standards that must be met by
those who live in their neighborhood. If
you can't meet those standards you may be asked to move… out.
Sight
reading is also a skill I never grasped; I learn through practice. The first few times through a new piece of music it can be difficult for me to interpret whatever it was that the
composer had intended. I am very good at
repeating what I've heard and, through practice, can produce a fine piece of
music. But cold-reading two lines at a
time, be that two hands at the piano or two lines of singing (the notes and the
words), is beyond my reach.
Being a
part of church choir the two big gigs a year are Easter and Christmas
services; Easter is actually the bigger
event as there’s an entire week of singing involved. But Christmas is three services that are back-to-back-to-back:
one long, late Eve service, then one early and one later morning Day services. With either event it’s a lot of singing.
Christmas
is like a marathon with a big hill thrown in at the end for good measure as each
mass concludes with the perennial favorite, The Halleluiah Chorus (THC). As challenging as that music was, standing
in the choir, singing music that had been sung by thousands of people for
hundreds of years in a beautiful space, those were moments of unbridled joy for
me.
As with
any marathon the first leg of the journey, the Christmas Eve performance, was
stellar: we were fresh and sassy and thrilled to be there. At the end of the piece the
standing-room-only crowd broke into applause and we were like “Uh huh! That’s right!
You better believe we're good!” We
flew out of there on a musical high, home to sleep for a few hours before we were
up and at it again.
The next
morning I'd drag myself out of bed, eat a piece of pumpkin pie (it’s made from
a vegetable and ever so portable…) and drive across the sleeping town to church. The normal people were all
pretty groggy but there were always a few chipper morning people who irritated
the heck out of me. This was probably aggravated
by my lack of sleep and having to be up so early.
One
benefit that offset our break-of-dawn call time was the visual difference between the
Eve and Early Morning masses. The light,
oh, the light! At night the sanctuary
was dark, lit predominantly by candles, so even with the huge crowd of people it
felt private and close. In the morning
the sun poured through the massive two-and-a-half story stained glass windows
casting light and color throughout the space. Reds, blues,
greens and yellows were scattered on the ground like so much candy in a
parade.
Our choir
was now smaller in numbers than on the Eve as those who had family commitments weren't there. By the end of that mass
we were all warmed up and rallied nicely for THC, The Second Coming. At the end of the piece the congregation
clapped heartily and we were like “Oh yea! We did it... a-gain!"
Those of
us who would stay on for the morning’s second mass were buoyed on by the heavenly scent of the
breakfast that awaited us: egg dish, bacon and sweet rolls. It was a courtesy (or bribe) which we gladly
took as there was no time to go anywhere else and we were indeed hungry. So now, with tummies full of good eats, we,
the ones with families that understood our desire to sing all three masses
and/or with no children, made our way to the choir stalls for the final leg of the marathon.
Armed with a thermos of hot broth to soothe my sore throat, I was more resigned than anything else: my energy for the final leg of this marathon was waning. And it wasn't just me. As a group we had almost nothing left to give. Three masses in twelve hours is a lot of singing. Knowing this would be the natural state of things, our director had more congregant hymns than choral pieces in this final mass.
Armed with a thermos of hot broth to soothe my sore throat, I was more resigned than anything else: my energy for the final leg of this marathon was waning. And it wasn't just me. As a group we had almost nothing left to give. Three masses in twelve hours is a lot of singing. Knowing this would be the natural state of things, our director had more congregant hymns than choral pieces in this final mass.
But, just
as with the two previous services, when it came to the end of the mass we got
ready to sing THC, The Triumvirate, and we tired, singing soldiers rallied to the occasion! "Once more unto the breach, dear friends! Once more unto the breach!" The director cued the organ (with all
the stops pulled), the brass section (hired in just for the holiday services) and then us and the jubilation of the experience kicked back into high gear.
I couldn't hear myself let alone anyone else around me over the pipe organ. With the brass’s bright notes sparkling above
it all we hit our last notes and watched our director who had a look of
fierce determination on her face. Her
hands spread wide, her head nodding for ‘More! C'mon, more!’ we took the
crescendo where we didn't know we could still go and then, the cut off!
Our notes hung in the air: one thousand one…
one thousand six, one thousand seven. We
had done it a third time! Those congregants who
had stayed to hear this final anthem were already on their feet wrapped up in
their winter coats and ready to head back out into the bright day. They broke into hearty applause. This time we were like "I can't believe it--- we're done! We're done!!"
It felt
good to have our work, our hours of preparation and perspiration, appreciated year
after year but that’s not why I did it. I
did it to be a part of something greater than myself- an attribute of music
often overlooked- and to bring beauty into the world. That’s why I’m here.
The rest
of Christmas Day was spent napping and eating wonderful food other people
had cooked. Our choir wouldn't meet up again for two weeks, a break we all needed. Once we did, we were on the march toward Easter week and that always came sooner than we expected.